


Inevitable

by sifshadowheart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Dark Will Graham, Dark side of Love, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, For that matter so is Will, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a Warning, M/M, Multi, Murder, Obsession, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Slash, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-06-22 22:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15592590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Will didn’t know how this was happening.He didn’t know why.But it was.Even if he couldn’t trust his eyes, not always anyway, he trusted what he felt, tactile sensation, and everything he felt said that this was happening.  His body didn’t have the aches and pains and scars he knew.  There was no knot of scar tissue causing issues with his shoulder from being stabbed.  No smile across his stomach from a linoleum knife or bullet wound in his non-stabbed shoulder.He was his relatively untouched teenager self, brain too much for most to handle and awkward social abilities that had landed him a full-ride to Tulane off of his high IQ and ability to pass a test – so long as it wasn’t a psych exam, though now that he knew what he knew he’d be willing to bet that was changed.In fact…as plans and plots started to come together, he was counting on it.It would be a long game.Almost twenty years.A different Will would be sorry for all those who would die between then and now, let alone those that would come after, but as he sat down and began the first of many lists that would shape his future for the next decade or more, he didn’t feel any guilt at all.





	1. No Beginning Without the End

** Inevitable **

**A Hannibal Story**

_By Sif Shadowheart_

Disclaimer:  Hannibal (TV) and the book series it was based on are the property of NBC and Thomas Harris.  This is merely fanfic without monetary gain attached.

_Author’s Note:  So, this is a bit of a departure for me since every other story I’ve written for fanfiction has been either Harry Potter or a Harry Potter crossover.  Should be interesting to write.  That said, I’m going with a time-travel fix-it on this, but where it starts and where the real story begins will mean some necessary time jumps especially in this first chapter._

**_Warning!_**   **_This story contains SLASH and well, it’s Hannibal fandom ok?  You should know what you’re signing up for and if not just watch any episode of the show and you’ll get a pretty good idea._**

****

_“What is past is prologue.”_

_~ The Tempest, William Shakespeare_

**Chapter One: No Beginning Without the End**

_“I needed to understand you, before I laid eyes on you again.”_ The words from that moment in the Uffizi gallery roiled through his head as the breaking-cold of the Atlantic pummeled him _down down down_ into its depths.  As his vision blacked and his lungs froze.  _“I needed it to be clear, what I was seeing.”_

Blood truly was black in the moonlight.

As black as the frozen heart of the sea.

And then he woke up.

…

Gasping for air, Will Graham shot upright as if he was on a spring-loaded lever, one hand rising to grab his throat in panic and eyes wide and blinking as he tried to understand something _anything_ he saw around him.

Four walls far too close.

The red light of an alarm clock on the postage-stamp sized nightstand beside him.

Stiff, scratchy new sheets rubbing against his hips where the bedding had pooled around him, shirtless in the muggy dark of the night.

Grinding the heels of his palms against his grit-filled eyes, he churned his head back and forth.

He knew what he’d seen around him, recognized it even.

It just made no goddamn sense.

And comin’ from him that meant something.

Biting firmly down on his cheek, the pain and taste of blood in his mouth anchored him then he lowered his hands from his eyes, only to blink at the sight of them in the moonlight and red glow of the clock.

Why?

Because they were too small.

Panting in ever-deepening shock, Will stumbled his way out of the small single bed and hit the wall switch, bright and burning fluorescent light pouring from the industrial bulb overhead and shining down on a sight that was familiar and senseless all at the same time, then moving slowly, inch by excruciating inch as the still-packed box against one wall mocked him and the books piled on a tiny desk shouted at him, he faced the mirror hanging on the back of the closest that was just as miniscule as the rest of the room.

Including him.

Given, after all, that as Occam’s razor swung, either he’d just had the nightmare of all nightmares or he’d somehow woken up – _after fucking dying_ – in his freshman’s room at Tulane, in all of his skinny fifteen-year-old glory.

Falling to his knees, he gasped and struggled for breath around a panic attack as a baby-face too young for even _wisps_ of stubble and close-shorn brown hair in the crew cut that was all his dad knew how to barber with their Wal-Mart clippers stared back out of the mirror.

“My name is Will Graham.”  He whispered brokenly around panting breaths, darting a look at the glowing numbers on the clock.  “It’s three seventeen in the morning.  I’m in my dorm room at Tulane.  And I have no fuckin’ clue how I got here.”

Though one thing was for damn sure.

The accent he’d fought to beat back since moving North was damn-sure as rich and full of the bayou as it had ever been.

Oxygen in short supply in his panic, white spots danced before his eyes, and then nothing but black.

…

Body stiff and cold, which made more sense to him than waking up far too warm after his dip in the Atlantic, Will sat up an uncounted amount of time later, barely turning his head to the side and noting that, yes, some-fucking-how he was still fifteen in the mirror.

Jaw setting in a grim line more in keeping with his adult self than the stripling he currently was, he rose to the student calendar already taped down on his desk, sending another glance at the clock to confirm what his brain was trying to tell him.

_September 23, 1993: 04:01 A.M._

Though, given his history – his _future_? – his inclination to disbelieve his own eyes was understandable.

And yet, logic prevailed.

Somehow, he’d gone over a cliff into the Atlantic with his – best-friend? Lover? Beloved enemy? – in his arms and woken up his fifteen-year-old self the first day of college at Tulane.

You know it was funny, he had to admit.

Since this was the day that set him on an inevitable course in direct collision with the trajectory of one Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Will blinked, doing some quick math.

Yes, it was Dr. Lecter by now, even if all he was at the moment was a particularly gifted surgical resident at Johns Hopkins.

Already an apex predator and serial killer, all of – another quick count – twenty-five years old since his birthday wasn’t until January whilst Will had only turned fifteen at the beginning of August.

Will didn’t know how this was happening.

He didn’t know why.

But it was.

Even if he couldn’t trust his eyes, not always anyway, he trusted what he _felt_ , tactile sensation, and everything he felt said that this was happening.  His body didn’t have the aches and pains and scars he knew.  There was no knot of scar tissue causing issues with his shoulder from being stabbed.  No smile across his stomach from a linoleum knife or bullet wound in his non-stabbed shoulder.

He was his relatively untouched teenager self, brain too much for most to handle and awkward social abilities that had landed him a full-ride to Tulane off of his high IQ and ability to pass a test – so long as it wasn’t a psych exam, though now that he knew what he knew he’d be willing to bet that was changed.

In fact…as plans and plots started to come together, he was counting on it.

It would be a long game.

Almost twenty years.

A different Will would be sorry for all those who would die between then and now, let alone those that would come after, but as he sat down and began the first of many lists that would shape his future for the next decade or more, he didn’t feel any guilt at all.

Hannibal’s kill count was impossible to theorize, though in the future Will knew – and now was determined to change – they’d certainly tried.

But there were _other_ killers.

Killers whose lack of kills might balance those cosmic scales at least a bit.

After all, Will wasn’t denying the darkness within anymore.

He wasn’t blaming it as a dark reflection of the dark hearts he’d spent so many years staring into.

No, that darkness was all him.

And thanks to the future-that-won’t, he had one hell of a rolodex of his own to begin working on.

…

_May 3, 1994_

“Are ya sure ya don’ wanna come home for de summer, Will?”  The concerned tones of Remington “Remy” Graham came over the payphone in Will’s dorm lobby.  Remy had never been particularly good at staying too long in one place, but with his boy – and he couldn’t be prouder of the sprout – away at his fancy college he’d made certain to always send word of how to contact him if need-be.

And with his pride and joy bein’ accepted into the summer studies offered at his school in Nawlins, there was need.

“I’m sure, papa.”  Will assured the older man.  That had been one of many head-trips he’d had to wrap his mind around after waking up in the past.  His dad was still alive, hadn’t yet been taken by a heart attack and wouldn’t be for years.  Speaking of which…  “I can come home for the semester break again, but that’ll only be a week before I have to be back for classes.”

“Home” was a loose concept for a pair that had traveled all up and down the East Coast before Will started college, but they _did_ have the bayou cabin Remy had inherited after Will’s grandmeré passed when he was about seven if he remembered right.

And it was close enough to New Orleans that he could take a bus most of the way before walking the rest.

Not the most convenient, but when he needed a break from his own head, the bayou was as still and deep and dark as ever and his fishing skills weren’t in any way rusty.

Another plus: his French – though the Cajun patois – was getting exercised again along with the continental French he’d decided to take as one of his required electives.  Tulane didn’t exactly offer Lithuanian after all, but French was a language that he knew from experience Hannibal spoke, and the more he could meet him on his own level the less chance there was of his “murder husband” as Lounds had put it deciding he’d rather have him for dinner instead of having him for company.  For that matter, he’d taken practicing his piano skills again, having let them slack off about three or four months before Jack had shown up and pulled him out of his classroom and onto the Hobbs case.

“Well, long as you’re sure.”  Remy allowed.  Will for most of his life had been smarter than anyone Remy had ever known.  And as stubborn as the day was long.  He wanted more than being a boat mechanic and fisherman and Remy wanted that for him too.

He was salt of the earth, same as his people had been for generations, but his little Will was different.

Strange different, some would say, and Remy couldn’t deny it, but he loved him and did the best he could by him nonetheless.

“Hey, papa?”  Will asked, trying to think how soon heart problems could be detected.  He was eighteen the first time, about three and a half years from now.  There might be something already that a doctor could suggest or see or something.  He wasn’t a good person.  Will had no illusions about that.  But his papa _was_ and he deserved more than a heart attack on the deck of a ramshackle boat with only a bottle of rye to keep him company.

“Yeah, _mon fils_?”

“Do me a favor and go to the doc, yeah?”  He suggested.  “It’s been years and your shipyard insurance should cover a check-up.  I worry.”

“Okay, okay.”  Remy chuckled.  The heart on his boy…  Yeah, Will Graham was meant for more than oil under his nails and a liver shot by forty.  “Can’t have dat now from my bright boy now can I?  I’ll go next week, get a clean bill of health before I see you in a couple.  Love you, _mon fils_.”

“Yeah, love you too papa.”

…

_December 14, 1996; Tulane University Campus_

Will stared at himself in the mirror, a behavior he’d picked up more and more in the three-plus years since he’d woken up in his teenaged body, cataloging the changes as they occurred trying to keep track of what was normal and what was different based on what he knew was coming.

In all that time one thing never changed and given what had shaped it, he reckoned it never would: he never forgot Hannibal and he never stopped loving him.

He spent plenty of time buried in books and labs, triple-majoring did that to you, but between staying during the summers, aside from a summer programme to France that he knew Hannibal would be interested in hearing about, and knowledge acquired from twenty years of living and studying and work, he’d still had time to work on himself, shaping himself more and more into what he knew would be sure to catch Hannibal’s eye.

Will didn’t lie to himself, not anymore.

He knew he was attractive, that Hannibal had found him beautiful, but at least part of that on Hannibal’s side was the allure of the madness caused by encephalitis and the prospect of a challenge.

The second was still very much on the table but you’d better be damn sure he was hyper-vigilant about the former.

As a result, he took better care of his health than he ever had, regular check-ups – which had indeed caught his papa’s heart condition and Remy Graham was still alive to watch him graduate _Magna cum lade_ from Tulane – running and weight lifting, all keeping him from the unfortunately waif-like appearance he’d gained during his first stint at Tulane.

Originally, between the press of people and the lack of mental barriers plus being on his own for the first time and his father’s death, by the time he graduated from Tulane and went straight to the police academy he’d been little more than skin and bone which his trainers at academy had taken as a personal affront to fix.

Now, dressed in the graduation robes with the tassel for his valedictorian status around his neck, Will was glowing with health.

Time picked at him, he didn’t think he’d ever stop missing Hannibal until he had him back, but until then he had visions of him in his own memory palace: the Uffizi gallery, the bluff house before the dragon, his office, dozens of little meetings and tableaus that kept him company when he ached to have his other half returned to him.

He knew, now, all too well that they could survive separation.

Just so long as the prospect of reunion still existed.

Should that be taken…well.

They might be driven to do something _rash_.

Will wasn’t sticking to the script by any means, adding two majors to his original Forensic Science degree, the school trip to France, taking better care – both of himself and his father – and so on, and was already reaping the rewards.

Remy had been shaken by the heart condition, facing his own mortality, and settled into a steady – if dangerous – job fishing crab in the Bering Strait in partnership with an old friend from when he was younger, his friend needing a partner and some cash after taking damage during one of the stormiest seasons on record not long after Will had asked him to see a doctor.

Working three months of the year in a dangerous job gave him nine months of the year to sit in his rocking chair at the bayou house and cast a line, working on boat motors as he felt the inclination.

Will wasn’t sure what Remy was doing with the money from the crab boat, but at least Remy wasn’t drowning himself in rotgut every night either so he considered it a win beyond extending how much time he had to spend with his papa that he lost the first time around.

Money had been an issue Will was sensitive to all his life from being poor.

He felt zero guilt taking what he knew and applying it to work for himself, figuring that he was already a murderer, a killer and a predator so what was a little foreknowledge to pad his pocketbook in comparison.

Nothing crazy or grand or extravagant but starting after he’d turned eighteen a few months prior he’d started investing what he had from his work-study job and working on boats with his papa during breaks, which, granted, wasn’t much – but it was a start that would only grow.  Even someone who’d had his mind wrapped around serial killers for a living paid enough attention to know what companies were worth investing in and which weren’t just from seeing what phones people used or listening to the radio while working on a motor.  Apple, Google, Tesla, and Samsung were going to be his best fucking friends.

“Lookit dat.”  His papa’s voice came from the doorway of Will’s dorm room, a slightly-larger shoebox than the one he’d lived in his freshman and sophomore years before being bumped up into an upperclassman residence hall for academics – nerds, he could admit it, they were all fucking nerds him included.  “ _Mon fils petit_ all grown up.”

Remy’s grin was _beaming_ , pride shining from every inch of him from the top of his freshly cut hair to the fresh-pressed white broad cloth shirt – new – to his pressed church pants and shined black boots.

He wasn’t an old man by any measure, having been in his twenties when his then-wife fell pregnant with Will, but a rough life on the water and having a bottle as a best friend for longer than he liked to recollect about now had taken its toll in the silver starting to fill his close-trimmed beard and the rough skin and wrinkles on his face, aging him a good ten years over his actual forty-two.

Still, old man in the mirror or not, there couldn’t be a father prouder of his son anywhere in the world than Remy was of his Will in this moment.

“Papa.”  Will’s tone was filled with gentle exasperation even as he leaned into the hug Remy snapped him up into, though at five-eleven he well-knew that he’d settled into his adult height and wouldn’t grow anymore he could still hope if only to keep his papa who stood a good four inches taller from picking him up whenever he pleased.

Remy’s large and cracked workman’s hands rested with ginger delicacy on Will’s robe-covered shoulders, taking in the sight of his boy in cap and gown, a tear coming to the rich sea-blue eyes he’d given his son.

“Look at you.”  He repeated, emotion strangling his voice this time.  “Mah little boy, all grown up.”

Will cracked a smile at his papa, having issues of his own dealing with emotions that he hadn’t experienced the first time around.  Graduation was bittersweet originally.  Remy had been gone only a few months, Will still drowning in grief and just glad it was all over so he could go onto the rest of his life.

He’d thought, before Hannibal let his brain _cook inside his skull_ , that Remy would’ve been proud of him up until the madness started to take hold.

Now he knew it and it was almost more than he knew what to do with up against everything else he knew and he’d decided.

He wasn’t going to change his path.

That was decided years ago, ever since Jack pulled him back in for the last, fatal, time.

But he could put part of his plans on hold for the moment, keep the worst of his darkness in check to keep that light shining in his father’s eyes.

Remy had a heart condition.

His death was as inevitable as Will joining with Hannibal or that the days of those on Will’s list were numbered.

But before then, he would stay Remy’s sweet if strange son and do nothing to dim the pride his father felt in this moment.

Even if it was his own darkness he was protecting him from, he _would_ protect him.

“Ya sure ya want to jump inta another program in January?”  Remy checked.  “We have money now from de ship,” where Remy _should_ be but he would join back up with them in January for the second busy month of the crabbing season.  “Ya could go on anotha trip, take a break, whatever y’all want Will.  You don’t have to take just any ol’ scholarship dese fusty Anglos throw at ya.”

“It’s a prestigious program, papa.”  Will sighed, explaining.  And another change.  He hadn’t applied let alone nabbed another full-ride the first go around.  “LSU is a good school and the Forensic Psych M.S. intensive is only two regular years, not another three-plus and no summers required.  We can take a trip in June, promise.”

“I suppose that’s alright den, though I’ve nevah heard-tell of a cop so well educated in mah life.”  Remy rubbed one hand over the curls that his boy was starting to let grow out.  “Where you wanna go?”

Will smiled, enjoying the sense of irony.

“How about Florence?”

…

They took that trip to Italy, bumming around in cheap hostels and eating some of the best food Remy had had in his life.

Then to celebrate Will’s Masters degree they went back, this time backpacking around Tuscany.

For Will’s promotion from beat cop to detective at the New Orleans Police Department Will finally showed his father France, all the places he’d seen during his summer aboard in college and those he’d seen tracking a killer in a previous life.

Then a year into his stint as detective, at a department that instead of finding him freaky just thought he was freaky good since his ability to blend in with the sheep was much improved from his first go at his twenties, they had to cancel their planned trip to Lithuania, Will finally deeming the Baltic safe enough to visit in the early 2000’s.

That ticking time bomb they’d known was in Remy’s chest had finally run out.

At about the same time as Will was standing up before a panel at LSU to defend his thesis for his second Masters degree in Forensic Anthropology, Remy had a heart attack during Wednesday mass at their parish church.

To Will’s shock, it wasn’t any easier the second time around.

If anything…it was harder with the closeness they’d managed to cobble together rather than drifting apart as they’d once had done.

Standing on the porch of his bayou home watching as the ashes of the last truly _good_ thing he’d had, other than his dogs as he was still looking forward to when Max and Buster and Winston especially came back into his life, sink down into the inky depths, he reveled in the dull ache that Remy’s passing caused, marveling that even though he’d gotten time with his father he’d never expected to have it still didn’t seem enough.

A warning, perhaps, of what it would feel like to lose Hannibal a second time, if the pain of losing Remy was trebled by experiencing it twice.

How much worse would it be if it was Hannibal?

He’d kept track of him, as much as he could, though as the internet grew more prevalent it became easier to do.

His Hannibal was such a society debutante.

The social pages of the Sun gave him some clues about what one Dr. Hannibal Lecter was up to, while subscribing to the Johns Hopkins donor newsletter occasionally netted further information for the cost of a recurring donation.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.

Between Remy’s life insurance – which had been substantial enough to purchase his Wolf Trap house and put him through Georgetown the first time, a shock to Will as he’d been then – which was even larger than it had been, plus selling out of the crabbing ship, Remy’s savings, and what he knew he’d get for the bayou house, plus his investments, _money_ wasn’t something Will had to worry about.

He wasn’t Hannibal-wealthy.

Not by any means.

But he was comfortable so long as he didn’t splash out on million-dollar mansions and six-figure cars, he probably wouldn’t even have to work.

Will wanted to work.

He’d never lost his love of the hunt, embracing his own darkness hadn’t changed a damn thing about that.

If he couldn’t _fully_ embrace it, hunting those that did while he had to be restrained was an outlet he’d needed very much.

Taking a long, final drink of his papa’s favorite bourbon, Will saluted the bayou with the empty glass, plans already ticking away as he reviewed the names on his _list_.

Whether they knew it or not, time had just become a commodity some people were going to find themselves short of.

Starting with the man who’d stolen Remy Graham’s only grandchild from him.

Ready or not.

Here he comes.

…

_July 19, 2003; Muskrat Farm, Maryland_

“Hello, Mason.”

…

 ** _Scandal in the Verger Empire_** , the headline for the Baltimore Sun screamed as a young man in his twenties enjoyed his room-service omelet, in town to interview for the Doctoral studies program in Forensic Anthropology at Georgetown and have a discussion with a FBI recruiter regarding his ongoing education in light of his acceptance to their next recruit class.  **_Verger Heir Overdoses on Opiates_.**

It wasn’t the death that Mason Verger deserved, but Alana and Margot had done an excellent job of that before.

Better to cut the sadistic pedophile off at the pass before he gained the power of his father’s estate when Molson Verger eventually died, though what impact it would have on Margot and Molson’s will he wasn’t certain, given he couldn’t know exactly _when_ Margot had revealed her sexuality to her deeply religious father.

Not his problem.

Mason was dead and gone and would never prey on another child, Will’s darkness was abated at least a bit by wiping out that human stain from the fabric of the world, and he was in Baltimore if only for a few days as he house-shopped (as if he wasn’t going to snap up his ship-in-the-fog in Virginia) and set up the next step in his plan.

Clark Ingram couldn’t wait any longer after all, as he’d just been hired by the Department of Social and Health Services for Maryland according to their website, and Hannibal wasn’t around at the moment to keep Will from stringing him up like the disgusting _pig_ the social worker was at heart.

…

 


	2. Hair-Trigger

** Inevitable **

_Author’s Note: More time-jumps ahead as we’re still about ten years out from when Hannibal S1 begins, though I’m not going to make it so we have to wait_ that _long for them to meet, but instead will have their little serial-killer meet-cute in pre-series._

_Criminal Minds characters are used here for filler but only Dave Rossi and Erin Strauss will end up in more than this one chapter beyond a mention here or there._

**_Warning for this Chapter: Graphic Depiction of Violence – Castration._ **

**Chapter Two: Hair-Trigger**

_Baltimore, 2003_

Will Graham, twenty-four-year-old doctoral candidate at Georgetown University and member of the upcoming recruit class for the FBI Academy, stared with ice-cold eyes at the body of the pig he’d strung up in its own apartment.

The rope and meat-hook had been sourced easily enough through untraceable means and given that Clark Ingram was barely out of school and didn’t _yet_ live in a nicer neighborhood of Baltimore, jimmying the window and taking him as soon as he walked in the door had been easy enough.

A single blow to the head and Will had all the time he needed to duct-tape his mouth shut, turn on some music on the stereo system, and get to work setting up his first true tableau.

Mason had been unfortunate for expressing himself given that if the Verger heir was murdered it would create a manhunt he wanted no part of.

But no one would miss Clark Ingram.

And once Will was done with him, no one would even know he was dead, and the police would eventually close the books on his missing person’s case.

Will despised rapists with the same furor he gave those who abused animals and children.

Yes, Ingram was an appropriate canvass to take out some of the lingering _aggression_ Will hadn’t been able to expend on Mason, though he’d made damn-certain that the cocktail of drugs he’d pushed into the pedophile’s veins was as painful as an overdose could be.

He’d deserved nothing less.

As it was, Will laid down a layer of plastic sheeting on the apartment floor to catch the blood that would soon be pouring down, ignored the itching on the hair-net covering his head and the nitrile gloves on his hands (he’d pass on the murder-onesie, thanks, no matter how effective) and meticulously removed Ingram’s clothes before tying his wrists together before hoisting him up via a support-beam accessed through the cheap false ceiling.

He dangled there, still unconscious but coming around, as Will tied and weighted his legs to keep him from flailing.

It wouldn’t do to show up to his orientation meeting with his doctoral program proctor with bruises that weren’t there two days prior.

Will had been a serial killer before out of necessity more than desire: Garret Jacob Hobbs, Randall Tier, Francis Dolarhyde and another eleven dead by proxy given that he’d manipulated others into doing the wet work.

Now…

Now he was unleashing that darkness he’d kept contained.

It wasn’t a pathology.

He didn’t have any driving _need_ to kill.

He liked it.

Liked the look of blood in the moonlight.

Liked the quiet feeling of power.

And above all, liked the way it made Hannibal’s eyes _shine_ as he witnessed what Will had become.

Hannibal wouldn’t bear witness to his becoming this time.

An unfortunate consequence of his new reality.

Still, there was a desire in him to be an equal to Hannibal rather than a protégé or pawn that wouldn’t allow it any other way.

“Hello, Clark.”  Will smiled up at the serial rapist and murderer as he blinked awake.  In another place and time, Will might be bothered by the ethics of killing a man he couldn’t be _certain_ had begun his trail of bodies and victims.  Will wasn’t that Will.  He could only be what he was, and what he was wanted to balance the scales a little.  “I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing, what’s happening, searching for a way to escape, etc.”  He ran down the tedious list of thoughts flitting through Ingram’s dead-shark eyes.  “Let me explain: I’m going to hurt you, kill you, and dismember you.”  Will gave a little chuckle.  “You’ll be in so many pieces they’ll never find all of you even if they look.  Which they won’t.  Not for just long enough for your carcass to never be found.  You won’t be able to escape.”  Will smirked.  “I’m afraid I know a thing or two about that which is working against you.”

And wasn’t that the fucking truth.

“You’re wondering why.”  Will nodded.  That was a fair question.  “It’s because _I can see you_ , Clark.  I see what you want to do to the women you pass on the street every day.  You’re a predator.  Maybe you’ve already raped and killed.  Maybe you haven’t.  But you’re a _base_ killer, a bottom-feeder.  And I hate your kind.”  Will slowly walked slowly around him, the shoe-covers on his boots whispering quietly against the plastic sheeting.  “I’m going to enjoy this.  Well.  Let’s begin”

He cracked his neck as Ingram pissed himself in fear like the cowardly bully he was at heart staring at a bigger-bad than himself.  Will wrinkled his nose then slashed out with his knife, a cheap, mass-produced thing found in any Wal-Mart or Target, and the part of Clark Ingram that most offended him dropped to the plastic sheeting with a heavy _slap_ and spray of blood to be joined by the balls that Ingram had abandoned upon waking up strung naked in his own apartment.

“You’ll bleed out in a manner of minutes.”  Will told Ingram idly, even as the body flopped and bucked from pain making Will glad he was wearing a raincoat and waders, plastic drop-clothes covering the apartment.  “You don’t mind if I time it do you?  For curiosity’s sake.”

…

For all that Clark Ingram was a waste of space in life, in death he took up all of two garbage bags once Will was done breaking him down into small pieces to be scattered in the wild for the animals to feast upon: none of them recognizable.

Getting in and out of dark minds had given him the knowledge he needed to manage it from the Chesapeake Ripper to the Copycat, the Minnesota Shrike to Abel Gideon, he knew how to dismantle a body.

He was sure the wolves and other meat-eaters in the nearby national forest would appreciate the offering.

The plastic sheeting was burned in a barrel with the hairnet, rope, and gloves, then the ashes scattered and the meat-hook and winch dropped in random dumpsters, his raincoat and waders rinsed down and bleached for next time, and Will was once more in his hotel room having never left so far as the security system – a cheap CCTV model easily gotten around if one knew what they were doing – would show.

Baltimore may not be _his_ Baltimore yet, but he still knew it and knew how to navigate it for the forensic countermeasures he’d employed.

Adding extra education to his own knowledge had only made him a better killer, though he wasn’t neglecting their purposes in catching less-skilled predators either as his excellent record at NOPD that had caught the attention of the FBI showed.

All in all, it had been a most busy – and productive – night.

…

_Virginia, 2004_

His little ship in the fog was much the same as he’d remembered it.

A captured bit of home that Hannibal-willing he’d never have to abandon again, as the stream in the woods called to him and always would, giving him a peace equal only to that of the bayou or the shelter of Hannibal’s arms as they’d kneeled on the edge of a clifftop.

It needed work, of that there was no doubt, and not just if he expected to talk Hannibal into spending time with him there when they – eventually – got to that point.

Will was close to graduating the FBI Academy at the top of his class, a history of excellence that was as much for his ego as it was to catch Hannibal’s attention when the day came that the snobby brat investigated him that he’d begun at Tulane and continued through all of his post-secondary education.

More, he’d been published already, putting out his monograph on determining cause of death via insect activity a full five years earlier than he’d done last time, then followed it with an article on biting in sexually-based offenses for the Journal of Abnormal Psychiatry.

He had three more years – probably – in his Ph.D. program at Georgetown, doubling as he was in Forensic Anthropology and Psychology but at the moment between his performance and his growing reputation in his criminal psychology and profiling classes at the Academy the FBI had no problem sharing time with the university for him.

Whether that would stay if he got assigned to Jack Crawford’s team he didn’t know, though Uncle Jack wasn’t the only behavioral analysis unit leader at Quantico for all that he acted like it most of the time Will had known him before, sharing resources with Jason Gideon’s team as the two split the caseload.

Though, if Will remembered correctly, sometime before Jack walked into his classroom the first time the agency had shaken up the behavioral analysis teams, creating three teams and stationing them in different parts of the country to limit travel expenses and the drain on agency resources that basing out of Quantico caused, even if he couldn’t remember the third team-lead’s name to save his life.

Probably because they were one of the few who never actively chased Hannibal as both Crawford and Gideon had done at different points in their careers.

“The kitchen has to be completely gutted.”  Will told the contractor as they walked through the farmhouse together, going over required changes to bring it up to code that he’d done the first time and little else, and others that were more for either comfort or aesthetics.  He’d never be as wrapped up in image as Hannibal, but he recognized just how _easy_ he’d made it for the giant butthead the first time to frame him due to his hermit lifestyle.  “It’s nearly useless as-is.”

“Yeah, not much space.”  The contractor agreed, taking a look at the sparse set up and then going to the wall that separated the teeny half-bath/powder room and the kitchen.  “I know you don’t want to lose the mudroom, but we could probably knock out this wall, take out the half-bath and give you a lot more space for a decent kitchen with a breakfast nook instead of a cramped kitchen and a tiny dining room.”

“That would work.”  Will nodded slowly, envisioning it.  “Can gas be piped in for the range and oven instead of the electric?”  He asked.  That had been a pain he’d never dealt with before, even though the house already had the hook-ups because of the gas water heater.

“That’s doable.”  The contractor agreed, especially given that it was only one wall and maybe ten feet away from the existing hook-ups in the utility/mudroom.  “Not cheap, but doable.”

“That’s fine.”  Will waved that off.  “This far out in the country I’d like to be able to cook when the power goes in the winter and with the fireplace I won’t have to spring for a generator.”

“We can talk materials for the kitchen at the showroom.”  The contractor told him.  “Anything upstairs?”

“Yeah.”  Will sighed, leading the way to the four small bedrooms and single bath.  “Bathroom needs updated.”  Will pointed out the space that was probably another bedroom when the farmhouse was built.  “I want to expand the east-facing bedroom into a master bedroom and bath combo.”

“That’ll cost you one of the spare rooms at least.”  He was warned.  “Might need more to get a decent square-footage.”

“Mock it up.”  Will told him.  “If necessary the extra can go to expanding the remaining bedroom into a decent sized guest bedroom/office.”

“Alright.”  The contractor knocked on some walls and took notes.  “Good bones over all, but it’s going to take cash and time to manage what you want.”

“I can always sleep in the living room.”  Will told him dead-pan.  “Otherwise it’s not an issue.”

And it wasn’t.

The total renovations took months, with Will spending a solid month of that living in a motel near Quantico when they had to shut off the water to gut the bathrooms and add the master bath, then again for two weeks when the kitchen was torn down to studs.

But eventually it was done, and the workers cleared out of a freshly-painted farmhouse, leaving Will to his own devices – such as rehabbing the barn in a different sort of overhaul altogether.

…

_FBI Academy Graduation, June 2004_

“Agent Graham, congratulations.”  The mellow-toned female voice came from behind him as he was casually chatting with one of his fellow newly-invested agents, Will turning to find the attractive middle-aged form of Section Chief Erin Strauss standing alone in her impeccable skirt-suit.

“Thank you, Chief Strauss.”  Will nodded, shaking her hand firmly when it was offered as he rapidly flipped through everything he knew about her.

Pencil-pusher.

Bureaucrat.

And head of the entire behavioral analysis department of the FBI at this point.

More to the point: Jack’s boss.

Erin Strauss oversaw the two current teams, the original Behavioral Analysis Unit or BAU headed by Jason Gideon and David Rossi, and the Behavioral Sciences Unit headed by Jack Crawford, as well as the myriad support staff that assisted with forensic analysis, computer analytics, whatever the two teams needed really to do their jobs.

“I hear you’ll be joining us in Behavioral Analysis.”  Erin continued, having been impressed with both Agent Graham’s performance in the classroom – many classrooms – as he pursued his education and at the New Orleans Police Department.  “We’re glad to have you aboard, Agent Graham.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”  Will told her again, his accent peeking out on the _ma’am_ as he’d not worked so far this time to tame it, knowing that most people found it to be varying levels of charming with the perspective offered by time and not a sign of ignorance as he’d once feared.  “I’m glad that the BAU was able to accommodate my class schedule so I can complete my doctorate.”

“Yes, the BAU tends to be more flexible than Crawford’s team.”  Strauss held in a sigh.  Crawford had toed a careful line between debate and insubordination when he found out that Will Graham would be joining the BAU instead of the BSU.  Jack simply couldn’t accommodate the scheduling agreement the agency had made with Graham before he’d entered their training program and even if he could, Erin knew him.  He’d _ruin_ Graham’s education before long with his demands on his time.  And that in the end would lead to nothing good.  “And there’s no better profilers to learn from than Agents Gideon and Rossi.”

“Yes ma’am.”  Will nodded.  “That’s what I hear.”

“Excellent.”  Erin smiled.  “Welcome aboard, Agent Graham.”

“Ma’am.”

…

Will supposed it was fate – if such a thing existed, though given that he was currently living his life twice he didn’t see any reason why not – that he wasn’t assigned to Jack, at least not yet.

Jack hadn’t had time to mellow – the little he’d done – with time and was still as much a firebrand as he reputation had maintained for years until the loss of Miriam Lass.

Will didn’t know if he’d have been able to restrain himself when it came to his former boss if Jack tried out his bullying tactics on him as he was now.

And neither he nor Strauss were lying when they said that Gideon and Rossi were the best.

When Jack’s team had constantly floundered and seemed one bad case away from shaking apart, Gideon’s had stuck together long after he’d retired, churning out profiler after profiler with superb skills that were in high demand even after they left the agency for greener or just different pastures.

He was actually looking forward to working and learning under them, if only to keep his own and Hannibal’s proclivities from catching their eyes.

There was nothing he could do about the Ripper.

Hannibal was just too damn much of an attention whore as his constant presence in the society pages shouted and his activities in Italy had begun years ago to stay silently killing under the radar.

His first sounder hadn’t dropped yet, wouldn’t for years, but every now and then an interesting one-off case would tickle at Will’s imagination and he couldn’t help but _wonder_.

For his part, most of the names on his list weren’t killers yet and wouldn’t be for years, or in the case of Laurence Wells wouldn’t kill _again_ for years.  They could wait.  Mason Verger and Clark Ingram were the only emergent issues that needed dealing with, everyone else could last until he’d finished firmly establishing himself within the FBI and his home in Virginia.

Almost as if it was a sign, on the way home from the ceremony, Will found an abandoned cardboard box that was shaking in the still Virginia air on the side of the road on his way home.  Pulling over, he walked cautiously over to the box, happy that it was well-off the street when he peered inside and saw a pair of shaking furry forms: puppies, far too young to be separated from their mother, and so weak it was impressive that their shaking had affected their prison at all.  Cooing a bit, Will wrapped them up in his jacket and hurried over to his year-old Ford Explorer, travel cage ready and waiting in the trunk.  He’d had no way to know when he’d find the first stray, he’d arrived a bit earlier in Virginia this time, but he’d wanted to be ready just in case.

He wouldn’t keep all of them.

Even with Will nudging him he could never see Hannibal comfortable with as large of a pack as he’d once had.

But he could be a foster home for them until he had the three he’d decided upon years ago in his dorm room at Tulane: Max, Buster, and Winston; training, socializing, and re-homing the rest.

Part nature and part counter-measure, he found himself smiling as one of the puppies gave a soft whuffle even as he started the engine and turned his SUV towards the emergency vet clinic he’d used before.

That young, they’d need looking after before he could take them home and get started on training and getting them ready for a forever home.

And if he ever discovered that one of his re-homes were abused well…he always had room for more names on his list.

…

Will saved, fostered, and re-homed half-a-dozen dogs in the next four years before Max found him one night as Will was taking a run after a particularly grueling case that he could already see was plaguing Jason’s mind.

It seemed that every profiler Will had ever worked with – himself included – always had one that stuck with them, clinging like a burr and never letting go.

Hobbs was his and always would be.

Jack had the Ripper, Dave Rossi his home invader, now Jason had found his own, leaving only one of the newer recruits – a former attorney named Aaron Hotchner – without a white whale or ghost haunting him.

After Max came Buster and Will’s little family was almost complete as he worked hand-in-hand with a local shelter as he continued his “hobby” of helping dogs in need, a habit that had netted Aaron and his wife a sweet mutt that once was a member of Will’s pack, and David a new hunting dog once Will finished socializing the puppy that had been turned in to the shelter far too young.

Much as one thing followed another, Derek followed Aaron, meanwhile Will kept an eye on Jack’s team noting the addition of Zeller to Dr. Price, then finally Beverly before an up-and-coming college student and polymath at Caltech caught Jason’s eye at a lecture.

His skin seemed to prickle as each milestone came and went, each carrying him closer to Hannibal.

As a celebration of his third year as an agent with the BAU, Will snapped the neck of Laurence Wells before tossing him down his stairs, staging a fatal “fall” for a man that he would now never have to reenact creating a murder monument topped with the corpse of his own son.

Time dragged and sped all at once, keeping Will on a hair-trigger between anticipation and patience.

A sensation proved out like nothing else when one newly-fledged Dr. Alana Bloom, fresh from her residency at Johns Hopkins, joined the psychology department at Georgetown the same year Will graduated with his freshly-minted Ph.D.’s, coming on stage at the renowned university just as Will exited it to devote his time to profiling and teaching at the agency, passing each other without so much as a whimper, no more than ships passing in the night.

Though, as he already knew, he couldn’t avoid her forever, a fact confirmed when one day he walked into a meeting at the BAU and found Dr. Bloom ready and waiting to work on profiling their latest killer: a theatrical killer who had displayed kills outside Annapolis and Essex.

Hannibal had begun his first sounder.

…

_BAU Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia; March 2009_

“Local law enforcement has been reluctant to link these two cases.”  Agent Hotchner explained the case to Dr. Bloom as Will settled into his chair, ready to relive the early stages of the Ripper with his current team.

Alana being part of it had been a bit out of left field, as well as Jack _not_ , but if his memory was still up to snuff the reorganization would be happening soon, and with Will’s seniority he’d at least be able to choose to stay at Quantico instead of being sent to Chicago or LA with one of the other two teams, citing his work with Academy and his relationship with his animal rescue organization for reasoning beyond “don’t wanna.”

Though thinking of timelines, he’d need to deal with Eldon Stammets soon, given that he’d started his mushroom garden sometime in 2010.

Will already knew what he’d do with him: bury him the same way he’d done his victims, only post-mortem as Eldon wasn’t helpfully-diabetic as his vics had been.

Mushrooms, as he’d learned at the time, were excellent in demolishing identifying features and evidence alike.

“The theatricality alone is unique.”  Agent Morgan said what had always jumped out to Will about the early Ripper kills that the LEOs hadn’t wanted to link.  “Displays of this type are rare.”

“Each victim was cut open and had organs removed pre-mortem.”  Hotchner continued, moving beyond the pictures of the scenes to the autopsies.  “We’re dealing with a sadist who takes trophies.”

“Psychopath.”  Dr. Bloom noted with an arch of a chocolate-brown brow.  “And a violent one.”

“And intelligent.”  Will joined in now that they’d gotten started.  He’d lead them where he could but he couldn’t be too obvious, especially until the team-switch up happened.  Jack was much easier to manipulate than his current team.  “No trace evidence was found at either tableau.”

“Tableau?”  Alana questioned Dr. Graham, as excited to be working with him as she was to be consulting for the FBI.  He was a legend, nearly on the same level as Jason Gideon and Jack Crawford in the psychological community if not more so for his intelligent research in the areas of forensics, forensic anthropology, and criminal psychology.  He also wasn’t the most social man in the world, though hardly a hermit, getting a meeting with him outside of the walls of the FBI was nearly impossible except for a yearly lecture he gave at his alma mater where she was now on-staff.

“Mmm.”  Will nodded, eyes focused on the files.  “These are too artistic for mere displays of kills.”  His sea blue eyes flicked up to Jason’s contemplative face.  “For this sadist it isn’t just about the pain or the kill, it’s as much about the scene he can create as anything else.”

“He’s not a fledgling killer either.”  Morgan noted.  “He’s likely killed before, many times even, to have this level of precision and lack of evidence.”

“Both of these _tableaus_ ,” Hotch nodded towards Will as he used the term.  “Took time, which agrees with a seasoned killer.”

“He’s gotten a taste for peacocking after the first one nabbed headlines.”  Gideon added with a sigh.  “He’s going to kill again.”

“Yes.”  Will nodded, frowning for effect.

“And soon.”  Alana added her two cents, gathering her things.  “Gentlemen, I’ll have my profile for review sent over, this has been enlightening.”

“Dr. Bloom.”  The team bid her goodbye as she took her leave, Will settling for a nod.

“Not a fan, Will?”  Jason asked once the lovely doctor was out of earshot.  With Dave retiring last year it was up to him to rattle the good doctor out of his own head sometimes, though Derek was pretty good at it as well.  Not so much Aaron, the dark-haired agent and lawyer just as prone to quiet brooding as their resident Ph.D.

“It’s not that.”  Will sighed, shifting a bit.  “My colleagues in the studies of the mind tend to be just as interested in studying _me_ as they are whoever we’re profiling.”  He gave a rueful smile.  “There’s a reason I’m not a practicing psychologist outside of profiling.”

“Not good at taking your own medicine, huh?”  Derek heckled him a bit, grateful from the break given the gruesome case they had ahead of them with little hope of solving it anytime soon given the sheer lack of anything resembling evidence.

“Nope.”  Will grinned.  “And I’m not sorry for it either.”

Yes, he decided, staring down at the first _art_ his beloved had created in over a decade.

Eldon needed to be given over to his beloved mushrooms sooner rather than later, as Will’s plan to catch Hannibal’s attention couldn’t truly begin until after his second sounder, though meeting Alana organically would certainly help it along.

…

_Section Chief Strauss’s Office, Quantico, Virginia; November 2010_

The final tableau of Hannibal’s sounder came and went and the world kept moving on, the public and press alike content to let the graphic displays pass unremarked after the case went cold except for the occasional piece that served as a rallying cry against the incompetence of the FBI that cropped up every six months or so.

But those were _not_ his problem, thank god.

Though if Freddie Lounds stuck her infuriating nose into his life again, he won’t be stopped from making her regret it whichever way came to hand, including using her to copycat another killer ala Hannibal’s Shrike.

Eldon went into the ground with his mushrooms in the exact same location as his original garden and Will moved on with his life – and to his next target that he was stalking with the utmost care against notice: one Abel Gideon who in a little over a year would lose his goddamn mind and decide that killing his wife and her family was an appropriate response to an unhappy marriage instead of asking for a divorce and then would later rack up another five kills _after_ being incarcerated at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane – a place that Will avoided like it had anthrax piped in through the air conditioning system.

The Ripper and the Shrike were most helpful in the best ways to stalk his prey instead of lure out of his collection of killers time-sharing in his mind, not to mention those new ones he’d added since returning to his work with the FBI.

Will’s nascent article cobbling together the profile of the Chesapeake Ripper’s three kills as a sounder had attracted some attention in the realm of criminal psychology, though he knew it wouldn’t really gain any traction until his second article following Hannibal’s upcoming second sounder which cemented him as a serial killer to be feared, equal parts monster and urban legend.

He was rather counting on it.

In the meantime, the section chief had requested a meeting with him and given the timeframe he had a damn good idea what about.

“Dr. Graham, thank you for coming.”  Chief Strauss welcomed him, ushering him over to a conference table set with a pile of what looked like personnel files.  “I appreciate that you are pressed for time at the present.”

“Nothing like the holidays to bring out the worst in people.”  Will sighed, rubbing at his temple.  “Between cases and the number of animals abandoned this time of year I can’t say that I’m ever bored.”

Max and Buster enjoyed helping new dogs acclimate and definitely helped with their separation anxiety as he worked with getting them suited for adoption, though at the moment he was blissfully stray-free besides his two loveable mutts, a status quo that was sure to change after the holidays and the spate of purchase-remorse-abandoned dogs and puppies turned into shelters or just _left_ somewhere between Christmas and Valentine’s.

“The current case load is what we’re here to discuss.”  She broached the topic with the brisk professionalism she always used except when one David Rossi, returned after Jason Gideon abruptly retired last year, came around.  “As you are no doubt aware, the agency is reshuffling the behavioral analysis department, spreading teams out around the country to keep one from being overly burdened by travel or an influx of cases.”

“Right.”  Will sighed, nodding.  “Under Hotchner and Crawford, right?”

“And you.”

Will blinked, rearing back.

What the fuck?

He’d never seen _that_ one coming.

Apparently, he’d done a better job convincing people he was quirky but stable than he’d thought if they were giving him a damn team.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.”  She chuckled, shaking her head at his modesty.  “You’ve been with the agency longer than SAC Hotchner and as long as SSA Rossi following his absence and return.  With your skills, education, and seniority we would be remiss if we _didn’t_ take this opportunity to offer you your own team.”

“I…”  Will swallowed, recalibrated, and then straightened his shoulders.  “I suppose I just assumed that given my obligations to the Academy that I wouldn’t be suitable for a team leadership position.”

“Well, you are.”  Erin told him, amused.  “And that’s not just my opinion but that of your entire team, several of whom don’t understand why you don’t already lead a BAU team, including your former SAC Jason Gideon, though I’ve yet to hear either an agreement or a denial regarding your promotion.”

“Yes.”  Will told her, still trying to reshuffle his plans to account for the shocking development.  “Yes, of course.  I did take the SSA requirements but I suppose I assumed I would just be moved to a new team-lead or would go with Hotch to Chicago.”

“SAC Hotchner will be taking Dr. Reid as well as Agent Morgan and his technical analyst Ms. Garcia with him to Chicago.”  Erin enlightened him.  “While SAC Crawford as been reassigned to Los Angeles and will be able to choose at least one team member from the upcoming class at the Academy, I believe he’s already chosen a protégé from them.”

Ouch, Will thought.  That was going to hurt Jack’s ego.  But considering the way he tended to bully over everyone and everything and having a viable replacement for Quantico in someone that they’ll also get lecture hours out of, the suits like Strauss and Purnell were likely using it as a lateral transfer instead of an outright demotion over his numerous complaints for harassment.

Will knew he’d come within inches of losing his job after losing Lass.

He’d never get tired of seeing how his choices affected things, though he hoped that they didn’t change them too much when it came to how Hannibal reacted to him.

If anything, having Will be the SAC over his case would likely make him _keener_ to peek inside Will’s head instead of less interested.

“You will inherit Agent Crawford’s forensics team and working relationship with Dr. Bloom.”  Erin went on to enlighten him to the details of the arrangements already worked out.  “However you will have to select your profilers from a mixture of current agents and candidates from the academy.”  She sighed.  “As you well know, there is an unfortunate trend towards burnout in profiling, so learning to evaluate candidates for your team will become an invaluable skill.”

“Is Dave going to Chicago with Hotch?”  Will asked immediately.

“No.”  A bit of a smile twitched at the corner of Strauss’s mouth.  “He won’t.”

“I’d like him for SSA then.”  Will decided.  “He’s more than capable of leading a team when I have to be deposed in court or teaching classes at the Academy.  If anything he’ll likely spend as much time at the reins as I will.”

“He’s a seasoned agent.”  Strauss nodded.  “And an excellent choice.  These files are all for candidates for the BAU.  You should review them in case you lose any team members, though I rather doubt that between yourself, Agent Rossi, and Dr. Bloom that you’ll be in search of profilers anytime soon though you might want to find a media liaison.”  She arched a brow.  “I’ve seen you in front of the cameras, Dr. Graham.”

“Ah, yeah.”  Will chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.  “That’s probably a good idea if the budget can support it.”

“Considering that the alternative is having you standing mute in front of the cameras and the funds we’ll save with needing less consults from Drs. Bloom and Heimlich.”  Strauss told him.  “We’ll make it work.”

…

“You can’t do this to me!”  Jack Crawford shouted at his boss Kade Purnell.  “I founded the BSU now you’re _banishing me_ to LA!”

“With Jason Gideon and David Rossi.”  She reminded him.  “You will still head a BAU team.”  Kade repeated, holding in a sigh and eye roll.  “This isn’t a demotion, Agent Crawford.  It’s a transfer.”

“That I neither wanted or deserve to have thrust on me!”  Jack responded, thumping one fist on her desk.  “Who is going to head Quantico’s BAU?  Rossi?”

As he was the only other member of the original three profilers it wasn’t a stretch, even if it burned.

Dave ruffled less feathers than either himself or Jason over the years, though he did take those couple of years off.

“No.”  Purnell told him reluctantly, already bracing herself for another outburst.  “Dr. Graham has agreed to take the posting.”

“Graham?”  Jack goggled.  “He’s never even headed a team.  Jesus, he’s _barely_ a Supervisory Special Agent!”

“He’s the best profiler in the agency.”  Kade rebutted drily.  “Without so much as a slap on the wrist on his record with a near-perfect capture rating with only a single exception.”

“The Ripper.”  Jack nodded, eyes brightening.  “The only serial killer to ever evade the infamous Dr. Will Graham and his _empathy disorder_.”  Jack nearly sneered over the trait that before this very meeting he’d been planning to poach for his own team as soon as the split was announced as it was well-known that with Graham’s seniority over other BAU members that he wasn’t going to uproot his life in Virginia to move to Chicago or LA.  It had never occurred to him that _Jack_ might be the one moved and all over a couple HR complaints and scuffles with local LEOs.

“You can have Dr. Lass once she finishes her courses at the Academy.”  Kade informed him, carrying on as if Jack wasn’t throwing a tantrum in her office.  “While a selection of candidates interested in relocating to LA with your team has been vetted and are awaiting your selection.  This is final, Crawford.”  She told him firmly.  “Graham stays, you go.  That’s what happens when you run off agent after agent and swing on a LEO.  At the moment, you’re a liability in Quantico that the agency wants out of sight and out of mind.”

“What about my forensics team?”  He demanded.

“They’re not _yours_ , Crawford.”  Purnell reminded him.  “They are agents of the FBI and will be staying at Quantico under Dr. Graham.  Deal with it.”

…

**Will’s Kills:**

Mason Verger

Clark Ingram

Laurence Wells

Eldon Stammets


	3. A Deft Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still traveling and focusing more on my original fiction so I hope you all enjoy this update :D
> 
> If you'd like to learn more about either my trip or my original works, you can find me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sifabrams/

** Inevitable **

**_Warnings for chapter: Graphic depiction of Homicide staged as Suicide, Canon-level Violence, Discussion of Suicidal Ideation_ **

_“You know I love you more when you're cold and heartless.”  
― Charlaine Harris, Dead to the World_

**Chapter Three: A Deft Touch**

The funny-not-funny truth was, even with Will chipping away at the available pool of killers roaming the East Coast, there still were more than enough to keep his new team busy.

Of all the things he’d done in preparation for meeting Hannibal again, two stuck out as possibly the _oddest_ considering everything he’d done, been, and been through, and the changes that _his_ changes made impossible to predict.

First was taking Jack’s spot as head of the Quantico division of the BAU, which had been more-or-less dropped on his head from orders from on-high.

The second was planning the _suicide_ of one Dr. Abel Gideon.

Will had met many people over the years that were possible candidates for suicide, himself among them considering he’d ignored signs of a serious illness, baited more than one serial killer, and dropped himself and Hannibal over the side of a cliff into the Atlantic Ocean.

Yes, of the two of them Will was a much more reasonable candidate if one wanted to hide a murder as a suicide.

Thankfully, given how many times Will fucked it up when it came to offing _himself_ , he had a damn good idea of how to stage Dr. Gideon’s last-moments, though given his strength and intelligence he couldn’t play any of the mind-games he’d used to toy with Clark Ingram, Eldon Stammets, and Laurence Wells.  All things being equal, aside from Will’s experience surviving things he shouldn’t and years of law enforcement, he should lose a fight with Abel Gideon.  Two things worked in his favor: Gideon wasn’t expecting being attacked and while _Will_ wasn’t the best at ambush-snatch-and-grabs, the Ripper along with a dozen other madmen in his mind _including_ Gideon were and he used their personas to carry it off, thankful all the way that he’d kept up his routine of runs with his dogs and weight lifting to carve his shape when he had to manhandle the larger body to set the stage.

Will knew better than most the body Hannibal hid under three-piece suits and tailored tuxes and a lot of that strength came from his ability as an ambush predator and not his thrice-weekly swims at his club with a bit of resistance training for appearances.

An overdose would have been easier to manage, this was true.

However, given that he’d already played that card with Verger he’d rather not repeat himself lest he create an unfortunate pattern that someone _might_ pick up on.  Paranoia: undoubtedly.  Still, even with the years between the two kills it was better to be safe than sorry.

As Hannibal had told him once regarding his long streak as an unknown then unidentified serial killer: the devil was in the details.

No, for Dr. Gideon only a suicide note typed out onto his tablet lamenting the feeling of being “trapped” in his life and a pair of deep vertical cuts – severing the tendons and _ruining_ his motor control even if he were to, however unlikely, survive – in the inside of each lower arm was much more to the point.

Given how poor Abel had used his hands and arm strength in Will’s previous life, it had a nice tang of _balance_ to it.

Hannibal had dropped his second sounder a brief two months before the shake-up and reassignments at the BAU.  Thoughtful of him.  Will was able to nudge the profile off _just_ enough that any team or profilers trying to take a crack at the now-christened Chesapeake Ripper would have to start from scratch to come close to aligning the inestimable former-surgeon and current-psychiatrist with the Ripper, let alone the real being that existed between the stitches of Hannibal’s well-tailored person-suit as his beloved’s cast-iron bitch of a shrink would call the Dr. Lecter persona.

The reassignment was also helpful in getting more than a few pairs of far-too-observant eyes away from Quantico and Will himself, though one of the most knowledgeable remained in Dave Rossi.

Who, while much harder to manipulate than Jack will _ever_ be, also had his weaknesses and blind-spots.

His paternal instincts being among them.

An instinct that Will was far too good at using to his advantage when it came to playing to Dave’s softer sides and keeping him blinded to the darkest parts of Will’s being.

And those of his beloved’s public persona as Dave and Hannibal, though Will had been unknowing of it in his previous go-around, moved in the some of the same circles given that both men were educated lovers of fine food and wine as well as opera.  Dave, while likely seeming boorish at times to the refined Hannibal, frequented enough of the same establishments and society as a wealthy author that Will’s beloved _had_ to be aware of him beyond the knowledge that the older male was one of his pursuers.  If anything, Will would venture that Hannibal was as entertained by running around right under Dave’s nose socially as he had been Jack’s professionally.

Though of the two, Will was willing to bet that like himself Hannibal treated Dave with a wary respect unlike the unsubtle flaunting that Jack was continually exposed to.

It wasn’t hard for Will to _see_.

After all, for a lover of culture and food Dave had never been invited to grace Hannibal’s table – one way or another.

…

“Bossman, two o’clock.”

Will heard the hissed warning from around the corner as the handful of techs that were now part of his purview – including the trio he remembered _best_ from his previous stint with the FBI – scattered and scrambled to appear busy.

All except for one Beverly Katz who was just as sassy and bold as Will remembered her.

And once more part of his team, though while from the outside it would seem he operated a smaller unit than Hotch’s in reality he was now also responsible for direct supervision of a host of techs and analysts that split their time between helping all three of the BAU teams no matter _where_ Hotch and Crawford were now officially stationed with off-site forensics, tech support, and other duties all vital to solving high profile and serial crimes.

He’d be willing to bet that Strauss and Purnell had farmed Jack out to LA as much to keep the complaints from the techs over his demands down as to slap his hand over punching that detective in Charleston.

His official field team was five strong: himself, Dave, Beverly, and the ever-bickering pair of Dr. Jimmy Price and analyst Brian Zeller.

It was one hell of a left turn from his first life but considering the benefits he’d take it any day over the original version of events, even if it _did_ force him into the position of having to keep control of Zeller’s inability to keep his mouth _shut_ around beautiful women.

Will would have to put out a ban on talking to Freddie Lounds as soon as possible once _tattlecrime.com_ becomes more than a glorified crime and gossip blog.

Though, seeing the petite blonde waiting outside his office, Will had to say it wasn’t often that he’d been pleasantly surprised by the curves the ripples of changes had brought his way.

Having a media liaison and victim advocate of the caliber of Jennifer “JJ” Jareau be willing to keep him from having to deal with the likes of Freddie directly was a damn _gift_.

“JJ.”  He granted a warm smile at his former teammate, offering his hand and clasping it warmly.  “Thanks for comin’ in.”

JJ returned his smile with a sunny one of her own.  His accent always reminded her of her husband's, even though it was quite a bit softer and mellowed from living away from Louisiana than _her_ Will’s.  It was one of those things that they’d all laughed about at the time.  Detective LaFontaine being _another_ Will from Louisiana and a former officer then-agent Will Graham had worked with at NOPD.  The tricks life played.

Now there they all were in Virginia: JJ married to her Will and bored out of her _mind_ at the State Department and her former teammate leading the BAU and wanting her back as media liaison.

Her Will hadn’t been certain about the offer, not at all.

At least, not until he’d found it came from his fellow Cajun and not Jack Crawford or Jason Gideon.

 _Then_ he’d been fine with it.

If there was one complaint nobody had regarding Will Graham it was his ability to keep his team safe.

An important and vital consideration for the LaFontaines what with the danger inherent in JJ’s job with the BAU being one of the reasons she’d changed tracks after falling pregnant with their son Henry.

“Good to see you, Will.”  JJ told him, eyes tracking over his dressed-up appearance with genuine – if benign – appreciation.  Will had always dressed well, but back as a simple profiler – if the preeminent one on the Eastern seaboard – he’d favored trim jeans to dress trousers and button-ups with vests to full-suits.  Unfortunately for his clothing preferences the top job in the BAU outside of Section Chief came with certain _expectations_ that required more of the latter than the former.  “Don’t you look all lawyer-ly.”  She teased, having heard the Cajun rib Hotch more than once over his own couture preferences.  Not to mention _Derek’s_ before the other man had loosened up.  “Did you raid Hotch’s wardrobe or Derek’s suits before they left for Chicago?”

Rolling his eyes in good humor, Will ushered her into his office and shut the door behind them.

“I _do_ own suits, JJ.”  He told her drolly.  “I simply don’t like them.”

“Too bad for you then.”  She laughed, sitting in the lone chair before his new desk, the signs of his recent promotion surrounding her in still-packed boxes and the distinct _lack_ of the old-fashioned picture storyboards that the profiler preferred over using a computer to lay things out.  Will had always been tactile.  No matter how hard Penelope tried to haul him into the twenty-first century, just like Spencer and Dave.  “That your new job requires them.”

Will sighed as if put upon, nodding his head ruefully, then got down to brass tacks.

“What will it take for you to come back as the BAU media liaison?”  He asked bluntly.

“To save you from the media and more importantly the media from _you_?”  She shot back with an arch of a pale brow, a knowing smirk on her lovely lips.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s see…”

…

Having JJ to handle the press and Dave to step in when necessary made life a lot easier for Will than he could remember anything Jack went through.

Though given that Will was neither a bully nor a harassment or brutality lawsuit waiting to happen, Will wasn’t surprised.

He was a murderer not a complete asshole.

It was entertaining to watch the hoops that the agency was willing to jump through to make Will’s life easier nonetheless, reinforcing the idea he’d gotten around the time Hannibal had come crashing into his life last time that a few letters behind your name went a _long_ way in getting people who liked to play the Washington game to do what you wanted and when _that_ didn’t work money talked.  Will didn’t flaunt his money like Hannibal.  Will probably would never flaunt _anything_ like Hannibal save, maybe, Hannibal himself.  Still, it wasn’t _unknown_ in the halls of Quantico that much like Dave, Will had no _need_ to work though the origins of Will’s financial freedom was much less gossip-worthy than being a highly successful novelist and crime-author like his SSA.

Waiting for Hannibal at times felt like he was both watching a clock tick down second by insufferable second and also moving forward at the speed of light.

It seemed like both yesterday and a hundred years since he’d woken from the dark of the sea in his Tulane dorm room.

The need _breathed_ and grew and bred inside his breast growing ravenous the closer their reunion crept.

Need for his beloved, anything of Hannibal, even just a _glimpse_ of his beautiful monster in one of his ridiculous plaid suits that only someone with Hannibal’s erudite continental panache could carry off with elegance in this day and age and not have a single soul bat an eyelash at him.

It was far too dangerous.

Even a single glimpse.

Hannibal was far too aware of his surroundings at all times, his memory palace nearly flawless.

Should Will’s beloved catch a glimpse of him in _turn_ it would be nothing less than a disaster as the flawless predator would easily come to the conclusion that he was being hunted in turn and by the best in the FBI’s stable of monster-catchers.

Which, granted, wasn’t a _faulty_ conclusion.

It was the motivations Hannibal would subscribe to him that would have either Will on his plate or Hannibal disappearing into the ether depending on his love’s sense of both self-preservation and whimsy on any given day.

Will could _want_ with every last cell of him…but he would wait.

After all, of the two of them Hannibal was the relentless tracker and Will the patient lure.

…

Dr. Hannibal Lecter found himself forcing back an inappropriate smile as he reviewed the article his protégé-cum-colleague had brought to his attention.  He allowed himself an internal scoff.  As if he hadn’t already read any-and-everything on this particular subject as soon as he was able either through his subscription to a variety of psychological journals or via being a contributing editor of the same.

There was little as important, after all, as the prevailing theories regarding the Chesapeake Ripper when it came to his ability to maintain his current comfortable lifestyle.

He was bored of it, yes.

There would have been no need to create the Ripper in the first place otherwise.

Still, while he always had more than one plan to extricate himself if things grew too… _tense_ in Baltimore he _would_ hate to leave his favorite organic grocers behind.

“I can see your deft touch in a phrase or two, Alana.”  Hannibal complimented his eagerly-waiting dinner guest as they enjoyed their post-meal brandies in his study.  Alana watching the fire or viewing his carefully curated artworks with appreciative – and cultured – eyes while he gave in after a good-natured sigh to her entreaties to review the article, the latest from the razor-sharp intellect of one Dr. William Graham.  Though as with other works of Dr. Graham’s, Hannibal couldn’t shake the feeling that for all his wit and insight there were other observations that Graham was quite careful in _not_ airing to the general populace – even a populace as rarified as the criminal psychological circles.  “You’ve been working with Dr. Graham for quite some time have you not?”

Alana quirked a smile and rolled her expressive, and rather lovely, brown eyes.

“As much as Will works _with_ anyone I suppose.”  She allowed, nodding.  “I was almost taken aback by his request to proof that.”  She waved towards the journal Hannibal was setting aside.  “Though I suppose with Dr. Reid moving with almost all of Will’s former team he was in need of an educated pair of eyes.”

Hannibal arched a brow at the first, barely hidden, critique from who was generally a well-mannered and delightful woman – as well as discrete – which did not speak well for Dr. Graham’s manners or attitude.

“Oh dear.”  He teased, tugging with a deft touch of his own for more information.  “Has Dr. Graham offended in some manner I should take umbrage to?  His articles have always struck me as being both well-written, factually based content and incisively cutting.”

Graham’s rebuttals of some of their fellow surgeons of the mind – in particular Dr. Frederick Chilton’s – could go well beyond incisively _cutting_ to near career-ruination on occasion.

Hannibal preferred to keep his own public chidings of Frederick’s pedantic idiocy wrapped in the bonds of firm politic.

“Oh no, nothing like that.”  Alana blushed for having given Hannibal the wrong idea, swiping a hand through the air then draining the last of her brandy and setting the glass aside.  “Will can be standoffish but never _rude_ like Jack could be.  He’s a _good_ man at heart – did you know he fosters and helps train and rehome abandoned dogs?”  She prompted then continued at Hannibal’s nod, the hobby having been covered a time or two in biographies on the infamous profiler.  “He’s just private, slow to warm up to new people.  It took me the better part of the last couple of years to get beyond distant politeness and professional courtesy with him.  His methods, while capable of collaboration, from what I can tell hold a strict preference for keeping his own council.”

“Ah.”  Hannibal nodded, turning that over in his head.  “The result of prodigy in all likelihood.  The world can be most _unkind_ to those most gifted.  Your Will may keep a polite distance, as you say, until he’s taken the measure of others and found them genial company or found common ground.”

“If we didn’t have a strict no profiling each other rule at the BAU.”  Alana smiled a cheeky grin.  “That would be my analysis as well since in all the years they worked in the same department of the BAU – and all the times Jack tried to poach Will from first Gideon and then Hotchner – I never saw Will give him more than a polite nod or handshake if pressed.”  She thought a moment then confided.  “I don’t spend _much_ time at the BAU anymore now that the agency has reshuffled the teams but the feeling I’ve gotten from the techs I’m friendly with is that there was a large sigh of relief in the building when Will was chosen to lead the BAU here and Jack sent to LA.”

“And your shared students?”  Hannibal decided that further fact-gathering wasn’t out of the question given that Alana had opened and continued the subject of Hannibal’s longest-running profiler.  Though even with Crawford being reassigned to Los Angeles he rather doubted that the man would give up the hunt for the Ripper anytime soon, if ever.  “What do they say regarding the enigmatic Dr. Graham?  Beyond the obvious intelligence coupled to knowledge of the criminal mind.”  He gestured idly to the journal.

“That he’s unyielding but fair.”  Alana frowned lightly.  “Always pushing for more than basic analysis.  Never content with shallow observations.”  She gave a rueful smile.  “I’ve had more than one student from the Academy come back to me after they’ve moved onto Graham in a tizzy trying to search _deeper_ into a crime scene after a scathing commentary coupled with a poor grade on a paper or assignment.”

“He holds his trainees to the same exacting standards as his team and himself.”  Hannibal suggested.  “I would imagine with a reputation like that new trainees either run in the opposite direction or are slavishly devoted.”

Alana laughed.  “Besotted is more like it.”  She shook her head, loose chocolate curls dancing.  “Half of them are in love with him before they leave the first class.  He puts them through their paces but any agent that makes it through his gauntlet come out with an understanding of the criminal mind that has benefitted the Agency in a capture and solve rate higher since Will took up the teaching post than in _years_ before his tenure.”

“An enigma, to be sure.”  Hannibal allowed a chuckle to slip from between thin lips followed by a genial tease.  “Are you certain Dr. Graham’s students are the only ones who are besotted my dear Alana?”

Her blush was beyond becoming, his reward for the remark.

“I…”  She bit her lip then swallowed.  “I will admit to a certain… _fascination_ with Will.  You’ve likely seen his pictures or rare appearances on TV but they hardly do him justice.”

“I’ve noted that Dr. Graham has a certain classical aesthetic.”  Hannibal nodded in easy agreement with that.

Alana snorted.  “He belongs in one of your renaissance studies you mean.”  She corrected.  “There’s few people in the world – if interested in the masculine – who wouldn’t be taken with his looks.  And more than a few who _weren’t_ that Will would make question themselves.  Couple that with the good heart he keeps hidden at work and his brilliant mind and I’d be a fool if I hadn’t been interested in him at some point.”

“Then?”

A shrug of one elegant shoulder.

“No reciprocation.”  She sighed, pouting a fraction of a second.  “He lets the bashful ones down gently, the insistent ones firmly, but overall exists in a sphere of bland oblivion when it comes to the romantic inclinations of those around him – at least as targeted towards himself.  And it’s _not_ because of a partner elsewhere.”  She added at Hannibal’s curious expression.  “He’s been asked.  No partner hidden away somewhere.”

“Just his dogs.”  Hannibal corrected with a light laugh then let the subject die and Alana’s abashed blush along with it, settling down instead into a review of Graham’s insightful in many aspects but yet still lacking article on the Chesapeake Ripper.  Even if such a review – even of himself and therefore appealing to his ego – wasn’t as intriguing as the author seemed to be.  Though given that Hannibal’s opinion of Dr. Graham was nascent, it was always possible that the mind behind the handsome face was as unassuming as his apparent non-interest in romantic overtures.

“Just his dogs.”

…

Eva Samuels was his trickiest prey to date.

Easiest to predict, given that Will knew _exactly_ when and where C.J. Lincoln went missing in his first life.

The physically weakest as well.

But when it came right down to it Bangor, Maine was a _bit_ out of Will’s immediate hunting grounds and more than a little pain in the ass when it came to finding an excuse and an alibi for Ms. Samuels.

It was the downside for burrowing himself so thoroughly into the BAU: he worked with one of the best profilers still in the field, his every move was under genial – but ever-present – scrutiny thanks to his promotion, and while an agent and professor could take a few days for vacation with little trouble the head of a unit was another story altogether.

Will had to leave it _far_ too close to his looming deadline of _dealing_ with Eva before she could completely poison C.J. against his mother and family as a result.

Happenstance – one of those little cause-and-effect ripples from Will’s changes – arranged things in the end without Will having to take a risk before he’d even made the acquaintance, risks that he’d like to keep in his pocket until that time given how much he was likely going to have to manipulate and maneuver after the fact to keep those like Dave off of his beloved’s trail. 

The peacocking ponce.

This time it was his vocation of rehabilitating dogs that kept him from having to balance a risk to his reputation versus missing his window for months and allowing Eva to walk free from Maine with C.J. in hand.

A rescue Will had heard of but never assisted before in Boston had gotten in contact with one of the local rescues Will worked with, wanting a keynote speaker for a statewide training event for animal foster parents and rescue workers.  It wasn’t a hard sell.  Or at least, not as hard as his local rescue might have expected, given that Boston was just under four hours’ drive away from Bangor.  It would make for a tight time frame but with his own meticulous planning skills as well as those acquired via his personas – the Ripper in particular quite the help – he could manage it.

Especially since when it came to Ms. Eva Samuels, Will knew _exactly_ how he was going to balance the scales.

With a _disownment_.

…

 ** _Unidentified woman found burned alive in abandoned home_ , **the headline read.  **_Remains curled in fireplace…_**

And Will smiled, taking one last sip of his hotel room coffee then rising to speak to hundreds of people gathered to learn more about the best techniques and tricks in his arsenal for gentling and caring for strays, rehomes, and abandoned animals alike.

…

**Will’s Kills:**

Mason Verger

Clark Ingram

Laurence Wells

Eldon Stammets

Dr. Abel Gideon

Eva Samuels


End file.
